


plastered smile

by strawberrylipstick



Category: Andi Mack (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Grief/Mourning, Gun Violence, Loss, Love, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Tyrus - Freeform, motivation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-20
Updated: 2019-08-20
Packaged: 2020-09-19 02:01:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20323252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberrylipstick/pseuds/strawberrylipstick
Summary: He often wonders when he’ll wake up from this strange surreality. This is not what he expected his life to come to. Flinching at every loud noise. Blocking out the same memories playing on repeat. Missing one person for the rest of his life.





	plastered smile

**Author's Note:**

> please heed the following trigger warnings: gun violence, death, mentions of blood, ptsd, grief/mourning
> 
> this is meant to be realistic. this is the state of america right now. it's hard to read and even harder to write. if you disagree with the political views (necessary gun reform) talked about in this story, feel free to click away

The days were once short, crisp and opportune. Somehow they were always full of the inexhaustible notion that the world was built for them. It comes back to him in painful flashes—humid nights intertwined with the sound of laughter, loud party music, soft lips on his. Life was once a marvelous thing, full of complexities that seem so incredibly simple now. 

Two years has rendered him with the ability to shut his mind. His memories seem to stop at the evening before, when the vast autumn sky held pinkish hue and the welcoming breeze ruffled his hair. His feet had barely touched the ground as they swung into adolescent oblivion, giggling about something he can’t even recall. 

He prefers it to end there. Nothing happened afterward. The world ended, if you will, in that familiar park, on that fantastic night. Everything came to a stop as he and Cyrus Goodman kissed for the very last time. 

It always felt that way when they touched. Every gentle caress would convince T.J. that the world only consisted of the two and their soft gestures, and this realization came way before tragedy. If he had to pinpoint it, the understanding occurred when their hands finally interlocked on a wooden bench during a middle school party. That’s when time officially became meaningless, only holding some power when he was around the boy he loves. Loved.

T.J.’s mother was perplexed about the situation. She used to be quite sure that their relationship would come to an end sometime in chaotic high school, but admitted defeat when junior year began. Inseparable. That’s what they were, until that day. Until a classmate burst upon the doors at exactly 1:03 PM, until mindless chatter was replaced with screams, until Cyrus was shot and T.J. wasn’t.

There. He’s admitted it, he’s remembered it. T.J.’s hands tremble as he rereads the paper, over and over again. He needs to calm down. Nine minutes until it’s time.

Alone with his thoughts in the backstage of a media outlet isn’t quite therapeutic. He wants to pace, but he doesn’t. Instead he lets himself stay awash in the feelings, the memories. 

It’s been a while since he’s done so.

Cyrus was a star and T.J. was his willing orbital body. Ever since that day, whereupon Buffy Driscoll ordered him to help the boy retrieve a pastry in a shiny glass container. A seismic shift had occurred the second he faced those brown eyes for the very first time. And the aftershocks were wonderful. 

Everyone loved Cyrus. It was quite impossible not to. He was just so nice, so understanding, so loyal. He was everything you wanted in a classmate, son, friend. By the time high school began, his clear ability to empathize drove him to an intellectual territory T.J. was so lucky to witness. Cyrus could debate, better than anyone else in Grant, better than anyone else in Shadyside.

He had a firm belief in justice. Albeit awkwardly charming, Cyrus’ words on stage could rouse the most judgemental. T.J. remembers the hours where he would mindlessly nod as Cyrus went on tangents about national and global affairs—reproductive rights, now-ironic gun reform, things that were bigger than themselves. 

T.J. just wants to hear his voice just one more time. One last time. It’s been two years, and the urge is still there, but will it ever go away? Cyrus Goodman was his best friend, his first love that was taken away so carelessly, so recklessly.

He often wonders when he’ll wake up from this strange surreality. This is not what he expected his life to come to. Flinching at every loud noise. Blocking out the same memories playing on repeat. Missing one person for the rest of his life.

His depressing musings are interrupted by his mother. She sits down next to him, not addressing his wet eyes. T.J. tries to regain control once more, but when his mother wordlessly motions towards Leslie Goodman, he just can’t help it.

They embrace, always seeming to bond over their shared grief, but T.J. feels more sympathy for Cyrus’ family than he ever thought was possible. His pity ricochets in waves, and he knows his mother feels the same, wondering what she would have done if it were her child instead. Cyrus was their only son, their golden trophy, a symbol of hope and love.

He wonders if Buffy and Andi—maybe even Jonah—will be in the crowd. How they’ve mourned over the years is an entirely different story. Grant was forced to rebuild after fifteen of their students were murdered in cold blood, but the friends and families of the victims have a harder time quickening the process. Buffy left the once-suburban fairytale just three months after, unable to stand a city and school that felt like a graveyard. Andi stayed, all artistic skill and quick wit gone, replaced by a girl who attended therapy four times a week so she didn’t have to keep picturing her dead best friend. Jonah stayed determined, their chairman for speaking out about gun reform. He landed up in Columbia, Cyrus’ dream school.

And T.J.—T.J. didn’t know how to grieve. He never thought he’d have to, not over Cyrus.

The two break apart and he sits back down, glancing at the clock. Six minutes. His heart beats frantically as he wipes the familiar tears away. He takes a deep breath, letting himself think the forbidden.

That day was so long, especially compared to the rest of their high school moments, but a mass shooting is known to do that anyway. It was drawn-out and terrible yet still lucid, as if those hours were a mere, harrowing nightmare. No one expected it. Their little town was nestled in between mountains and centered around PTA meetings. Lowest crime rate in the state, he’d heard the mayor boast for years.

That morning Cyrus and T.J. had fought over something dumb. Cyrus didn’t want to go out that weekend; he was busy with a charity drive. T.J. wanted to go on a date of some sort. He wanted to have fun with his boyfriend, who he was seeing less and less. And no, it didn’t matter that they hung out at the park all night before. T.J. wanted more.

And now? T.J. can settle for anything, as long as he can be around Cyrus again, to feel his alive and warm body. To be able to count the freckles on his cheek again. God, something. Anything.

By the time third period rolled by, T.J. felt too guilty and texted him three words. He also retrieved the last ones. _ I love you too. _ And on one spring day full of grief, T.J. scrolled all the way up to read every single thing they’d ever sent to each other. There were 250,456 texts between them, and Cyrus’ side ended with _ I love you too. _

T.J. closes his eyes. He’s sixteen again and he’s fucking terrified, wondering why noises that belonged in battlefield are at his school. He’s sixteen again and he’s typing texts frantically, to his parents, to his friends, in case he can never speak to them once more. He’s sixteen again and he’s just spotted a body in the panicked hallway as they’re evacuating. He’s sixteen again and he’s kneeling, staring at the crimson stain that’s spread on Cyrus’ sweater with wide, unbelieving eyes. He’s sixteen again and his head lays on the cold chest, searching for any feeble sounds of life. He’s sixteen again and he’s dragged out of his position by a SWAT officer, who is shouting and directing, but it’s all irrelevant, for the blood of his boyfriend stays splattered on his blue hoodie—

There are so many “if only”s that applied for that day. If only they hadn’t gone to school that day. If only Cyrus wasn’t in the way of the bullet. If only the perpetrator was prohibited from buying a weapon that killed fifteen people in eight minutes.

And then T.J. feels it. A flickering flame. Feeble, but still there. So unlike grief, but caused by it. It’s this fierce anger, bubbling in his chest. Directed not only to the killer, but also to those who supplied him with ammunition and continue to defend why. His classmate was only eighteen when he legally bought the semiautomatic rifle that murdered his fellow students.

The feeling grows warmer, stronger, when T.J. finally directs his gaze to the left wall. Pasted pictures of the fifteen victims. He finds Cyrus immediately. Third row. Smiling so brightly despite the bleak background—it was a grey day, but they’d conquered it together, spending it at that little diner and their park. (T.J.’s never ventured back there. How could he sit on a swingset meant for two?) 

His plastered smile holds so much motivation. It envelopes T.J. and suddenly, he knows what he’s doing is right. He’s doing what Cyrus would’ve done. He’s doing it so one day, there can be a nation that values the rights of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness over the second amendment. A nation where every member of his school was able to make it home that day. A nation where Cyrus Goodman could’ve graduated high school. Gone to college. Gotten married.

Lived.

A minute left. A crew member beckons for him from behind the curtain, and T.J. is ready. 

“He loved you so much, you know,” Leslie tells him before he walks. There’s a small, broken smile on her face.

T.J. knows. And he reciprocated. Reciprocates. The crumpled paper in his hand, full of rousing words he can practically hear Cyrus approve of, is a testament to that. 

He glances at the picture on the wall, closing his eyes one last time so he can quickly experience the happier days, a time of muffins and swings and benches and being in love. A time that deserved to last. Fighting for this necessary cause feels like preservation. 

And now it’s time to fight.

**Author's Note:**

> god that was so hard to write. i love you cyrus goodman
> 
> but this isn't some dystopian society—people are being shot everywhere. schools. malls. theaters. places of worship. around 40,000 people per year die from gun violence in the united states of america. please try fighting for those who are lost and will be lost until our government wakes the fuck up. no one deserves to be a plastered smile—just another statistic we use to prove our point.
> 
> here are some links i found to help:  
[march for our lives](https://marchforourlives.com)  
[change.org petition to walmart for a ban on their assault weapons sales](http://chng.it/H89pYB4NTr)  
[change.org petition to mitch mcconell for an assault weapons ban](https://www.change.org/p/mitch-mcconnell-tell-mitch-mcconnell-to-ban-assault-weapons-now?pt=AVBldGl0aW9uADNpBAEAAAAAXVu82AqQhFw3NzY0MWE5Yg%3D%3D&source_location=topic_page)


End file.
